If you wish, you can post your kitchen poem or your group poem here.
Mother’s Kitchen
June’s morning fog roles back to the bay.
My Mother’s first kitchen was that high grey kitchen inEl Cerrito.
Grandma Nelson’s kitchen.
Now, my Mother’s kitchen has become Kristine’s kitchen.
The one Grandpa Nelson built for Mom and Dad.
In June, morning fogs leave the kitchen window and retreat towardsEl Cerrito.
Kristine sits at the tile table, those iron legs curve down to the floor
The grey scuff marks on the linoleum remind her of limits.
Those light curved fiberglass chairs
They have transparency and movement.
Look through the glass, look through the fog
Lawn, dog, horse pasture, high tension electric wires, the vegetable garden, and the driveway
Dad would have driven up that drive way hours ago
Drive that white ranch wagon
Drive with a cup of coffee between his knees and a plate of pancakes on the steering wheel.
Kristine takes the bread out of the oven.
Cut a few slices, make some toast, grab a couple of the little green and red stippled apples for lunch.
The fog will be gone by the time Mom is able to get out of bed.
Even on a good day she can’t use the bread saw anymore.
Cut a few more slices for her.
It is time to go out into the foggy morning, grab a green Miramonte Matador sweat shirt.
Maybe there is time to water that dying African violet – or is it over-watered already?
Rebecca Bowers
SJVWP Summer Institute 2011
My Mother’s Kitchen
The smell of tamales fills the air Leftover ojas everywhere - I can hardly wait until they’re done. Listening to the sound of the water run - “Help with the dishes, mija!” my mother declares. Then out walks my grandmother with her smile so rare. She comes over and gives me a loving tap on the shoulder. I’ve loved this forever, even now that I’m older. The sight of her cream colored apron - With the mess of masa blending in – The scene is picture perfect, except for the ivy. The dead leaves hanging down, neglected, no one sees but me. Finally I hear it; the sound warms my heart and brings a smile to my face. The oven timer rings, my mouth waters for that spectacular taste - Lupita Fuentes Kitchen poem My lovely mother, Is the best cook everGr She can make pork chops, Chicken, beef and lamb chops too, When we get together for family gatherings, We know it’s time for some good ‘ol family grub, My mom would win hands down, If she had a throw down, With Rachel Ray, Paula Dean or Bobby Flay, For the holidays my mom will announce, Red Velvet and Chessecake are in the house, And I know these memories will last forever in my heart.
Group Poem from Meta's group
The field of sunflowers stretched out next to a field of green,
waved in harmony in the cool morning breeze.
It was a pleasant morning -- the air was crisp and clear.
Yet some dark presence lurked in the cold wind.
It was shimmering and illusive.
It was like a light flickering in the dark.
A lighthouse, a lantern, a candle in the window. The yellow glow
reflects the summer sun.
Debbie Perez
In the cool of the morning
Down near the flat boulder
Icy water flowing near to the brink
Buddy, with Grandma, silently sat
Stomach growling, anticipating
Sensing a tug, feeling a jerk
Tightening a grip
Working the filament so sure of success
The biggest one yet
Slung over a shoulder
Now dropped in the sink
Slick and shiny, all dripping wet
Expert hands, flashes of silver and light,
Golden cornmeal
In the old summer kitchen oil is sizzling
Baking powder biscuits, brown and warm
Honey and butter melt, slipping down
Stacked slices of green tomatoes lay waiting
Salty, crunchy, tangy, no regret
My Grandmother’s Kitchen L. Ayanna Evans July 2011 Aunts welcome Some must stay—Shirley Some told to stay—Janice Others invited to leave—Joyce, Janet, JoAnn Greens and neckbones Large Pots Full sinks Hot ovens Sounds of laughter Chopping, Pounding
Mother’s Kitchen
June’s morning fog roles back to the bay.
My Mother’s first kitchen was that high grey kitchen inEl Cerrito.
Grandma Nelson’s kitchen.
Now, my Mother’s kitchen has become Kristine’s kitchen.
The one Grandpa Nelson built for Mom and Dad.
In June, morning fogs leave the kitchen window and retreat towardsEl Cerrito.
Kristine sits at the tile table, those iron legs curve down to the floor
The grey scuff marks on the linoleum remind her of limits.
Those light curved fiberglass chairs
They have transparency and movement.
Look through the glass, look through the fog
Lawn, dog, horse pasture, high tension electric wires, the vegetable garden, and the driveway
Dad would have driven up that drive way hours ago
Drive that white ranch wagon
Drive with a cup of coffee between his knees and a plate of pancakes on the steering wheel.
Kristine takes the bread out of the oven.
Cut a few slices, make some toast, grab a couple of the little green and red stippled apples for lunch.
The fog will be gone by the time Mom is able to get out of bed.
Even on a good day she can’t use the bread saw anymore.
Cut a few more slices for her.
It is time to go out into the foggy morning, grab a green Miramonte Matador sweat shirt.
Maybe there is time to water that dying African violet – or is it over-watered already?
Rebecca Bowers
SJVWP Summer Institute 2011
My Mother’s Kitchen
The smell of tamales fills the air
Leftover ojas everywhere -
I can hardly wait until they’re done.
Listening to the sound of the water run -
“Help with the dishes, mija!” my mother declares.
Then out walks my grandmother with her smile so rare.
She comes over and gives me a loving tap on the shoulder.
I’ve loved this forever, even now that I’m older.
The sight of her cream colored apron -
With the mess of masa blending in –
The scene is picture perfect, except for the ivy.
The dead leaves hanging down, neglected, no one sees but me.
Finally I hear it; the sound warms my heart and brings a smile to my face.
The oven timer rings, my mouth waters for that spectacular taste -
Lupita Fuentes
Kitchen poem
My lovely mother,
Is the best cook everGr
She can make pork chops,
Chicken, beef and lamb chops too,
When we get together for family gatherings,
We know it’s time for some good ‘ol family grub,
My mom would win hands down,
If she had a throw down,
With Rachel Ray, Paula Dean or Bobby Flay,
For the holidays my mom will announce,
Red Velvet and Chessecake are in the house,
And I know these memories will last forever in my heart.
Group Poem from Meta's group
The field of sunflowers stretched out next to a field of green,
waved in harmony in the cool morning breeze.
It was a pleasant morning -- the air was crisp and clear.
Yet some dark presence lurked in the cold wind.
It was shimmering and illusive.
It was like a light flickering in the dark.
A lighthouse, a lantern, a candle in the window. The yellow glow
reflects the summer sun.
Debbie Perez
In the cool of the morning
Down near the flat boulder
Icy water flowing near to the brink
Buddy, with Grandma, silently sat
Stomach growling, anticipating
Sensing a tug, feeling a jerk
Tightening a grip
Working the filament so sure of success
The biggest one yet
Slung over a shoulder
Now dropped in the sink
Slick and shiny, all dripping wet
Expert hands, flashes of silver and light,
Golden cornmeal
In the old summer kitchen oil is sizzling
Baking powder biscuits, brown and warm
Honey and butter melt, slipping down
Stacked slices of green tomatoes lay waiting
Salty, crunchy, tangy, no regret
-
My Grandmother’s Kitchen
L. Ayanna Evans
July 2011
Aunts welcome
Some must stay—Shirley
Some told to stay—Janice
Others invited to leave—Joyce, Janet, JoAnn
Greens and neckbones
Large Pots
Full sinks
Hot ovens
Sounds of laughter
Chopping, Pounding
Exuberant Conversing
Momma dies
All is silent now
Only green grass
-